"Then it _isn't_ Tom Granger at all! You don't care a _bit_ about him?"
Robin's face lifted. "About Tom? Oh, goodness me, no. Why, he isn't
worth Dale's little _finger_--Beryl Lynch, why do you ask me that?"
"Oh--nothing. Really, truly--" And Beryl escaped into the house.
* * * * *
Robin drove Dale back to the village. At the turn of the road near the
House of Laughter she stopped the car that they might enjoy for a moment
the twilight glow of the valley. Lights twinkled from the Mill houses
across the river. From the House of Laughter came the sound of singing.
A young crescent of a moon shone silvery against a purple blue sky.
"Little Red-Robin," cried Dale, suddenly, "Are you very sure?"
"Sure--of what?" Robin asked in a voice that trembled in spite of her.
"Someday you will be a rich girl. I am a--working-man. What will the
world say? They may laugh at you!"
Robin's chin lifted. Had she ever reckoned her gifts in dollars and
cents?
"But you're my Prince!" she protested, proudly. "Don't you remember?
That night, a long, long time ago, when you took me home, I called
you--my Prince.
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